Hopalong Returns
by PuffPiece
Summary: Dean's ankle isn't playing nicely. Surgery and the aftermath; follow-up to Killer Curbs.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, follows, and general encouragement you guys gave Killer Curbs. Hope this satisfies those of you looking for an encore… (and the rest of you as well!)

"Come on man, stop gimping around already and get your freaking ankle looked at!"

Sam's exasperated words serve several purposes. They stop Dean cold, hand planted on the back of the motel room chair he'd been using to brace himself, trying to get some of the weight off of his still painful right ankle. They also remind him that Sam sees way too much, is way too observant, and that they've been living underneath each other's thumbs for way too long; there's no way he's going to be able to get away with continuing to ignore his still troublesome limb. And they elicit a deep growl from the older of the Winchester brothers, an audible display of the disgust he feels towards the past couple of months.

From the initial insult of falling off of the curb (and the ribbing and general mockery that in itself had entailed), to the month-long sentence of crutches, immobilized in a walking boot (sans the actual walking part), through the past couple of weeks, gradually trying to get his strength and mobility back.

He's listened to the doctors and the physical therapists (he has, he swears - at least most of the time); in fact, he really listened to that one PT assistant. All night long.

A smirk crosses his face at the thought that that was a very good night indeed.

But despite the physical therapy sessions, the home exercise regimen, and the caution he's taken to not be a complete dumbass (as Bobby had so eloquently put it before they'd headed back out on the road), his ankle's still being a bum. Still causing him to limp, both because of the pain and the weakness. Still giving out at the most inopportune times. Like last night, for instance, when he'd practically spilled his beer on that girl in the bar. He's pretty sure he'd narrowly missed an ass-kicking from her boyfriend (a guy even bigger than Sam), but thankfully they'd both been convinced by his story when he'd had to physically hold onto the bar in order to keep himself upright, his ankle wanting no part in helping to hold his body weight at that particular moment in time.

And he's kind of scared that one of these days it will actually cause a bigger issue. Doesn't even want to think about what could happen to him or Sam if his ankle decides to give out when in they're in the middle of a hunt.

But he's more afraid of what the doctors will say if he goes back to have it evaluated. The threat of surgery has been hanging over his head ever since that doctor Bobby made him see; since then, it's been reiterated on several occasions, each time causing his gut to clench more tightly as his ankle failed to progress like the doctors and therapists had been hoping.

He's doesn't want to be laid up for another couple of months. Thinks he'll likely go crazy if he has any more forced down time in the near future.

Thinks maybe if he gives it another week or two, his ligaments will suddenly decide to play nicely and get themselves back on track.

He should really know better by now.

()o()o()o()o()

The final straw comes much sooner than Dean had been hoping, during what should have been a relatively routine take down of a skinwalker.

Bobby had asked them to take a look after they'd left his place, said he was getting some intel about questionable activity in the direction they'd been headed. Dean had jumped at the chance to get back in the game. Sam had incredulously asked Bobby if he was crazy.

"Yeah, for putting up with the two of you," had been Bobby's prompt reply.

Sam had reluctantly agreed to look into the details, his interest piqued when it did, in fact, turn out to be a skinwalker causing the issues in the small town about a day's drive from Bobby's place. He'd agreed to let Dean come along with him on the actual hunt, figuring that his brother was just as likely to follow him anyway (he knows when to pick his battles), and feeling fairly confident that he'd be able to outpace Dean by a mile anyway, given his brother's rather turtle-like speed these days.

And while Dean's well aware of his ankle's limitations (he really hasn't been able to run since that fateful meeting with the hot blonde, unless you count the limp-hop he's now perfected), he figures he can at least provide some back up for Sam. Be an extra set of hands and maybe get some target practice in at the same time.

The day's events don't quite live up to what he'd been picturing, however.

He can hear the snapping of twigs and branches up ahead of him, is following them like a trail of breadcrumbs to his younger brother who's easily outpacing him, probably without even breaking a sweat.

Damn his traitorous body.

He's having to pick his way carefully around the rocks and tree roots, the obstacles and uneven terrain just lying in wait to give his ankle even more grief than usual.

When he does finally catch up with Sam, his breath coming in faster puffs than he'd like both from the mental exertion of having to continuously monitor his footing and from the physical exertion that tells him he's been off his game for way too long, the sight that greats him does nothing to calm the heart beat that mirrors his rapid breathing.

Sam's engaged in a wrestling match with the skinwalker, arms shaking as he tries to keep the beast from making him into a rather tasty Sammy Snack, eyes locked on the task at hand.

Dean takes a couple of limping steps closer to his brother, maneuvering himself into a position that gets Sam out of harm's way, slowly raising his gun to take aim at the beast threatening to chow down on his only other living relative.

He continues to sneak up on the epic wrestling match, making miniscule adjustments as he goes, his finger gently tightening on the trigger, the beast's head firmly in his sights.

Unfortunately, his ankle picks the exact moment he completes the motion of squeezing the trigger to act like a bitch, giving out on him and causing his balance to waver just enough that the bullet completely misses its intended target, whizzing past Sam's head instead, before embedding itself rather benignly into the trunk of the tree behind him.

While failing to cause any damage to the skinwalker, it at least causes a diversion, allowing Sam to plunge the silver knife into the beast's chest before taking off its head for good measure.

"Dude! What the hell?" Sam cries over his shoulder, equal parts consternation and exasperation as he puts the finishing touches on his handiwork. "Did you just shoot at me?"

"Shit," Dean says, sinking down onto a rocky outcropping, working to steady his breathing against the hammering in his chest. His eyes are wide, his complexion a rather greenish gray, not because of the pain in his ankle this time, but due to the thought that he did just come dangerously close to putting an unintended hole into his little brother's head.

Sam makes short work of taking care of the rest of the job, tersely telling Dean to stay put when he sees his brother contemplating coming over to help. He can see the worry in his older brother's eyes, can almost see Dean second-guessing his actions as he replays the recent events in his head. Can see the exact moment he understands how much of a liability his ankle may end up being.

And while Sam in no way wants Dean to beat himself up any more than he already does on an almost daily basis, he's actually kind of glad today played out like it did. Because if Dean's miss was because of his bum ankle (which Sam's almost 100% sure it was), his pigheaded big brother might actually get it checked out.

Because while Dean isn't one to take care of himself, he's been trained since the age of four to take of Sam.

()o()o()o()o()

"Hey Bobby, long time no see!" Dean says into his cell phone, the strained tone of his voice making the comment sound way less lighthearted than he'd been aiming for.

He glances over to where Sam's seated in the passenger's seat of the Impala, quickly turning his attention away from the Bitch Face directed his way in order to focus on the still smoldering pile of skinwalker in front of the parked car, his phone-free hand tapping out a rhythmless tattoo against the steering wheel.

"You boys get the job done?" comes the gruff older hunter's no-nonsense return greeting.

Dean nods, swallowing thickly around the lump still lodged in his throat, belatedly remembering that he has to verbally answer Bobby's question. "Yep. Sam took it down. One less thing to go bump in the night."

Bobby's pause hangs in the air for several seconds before he finally asks, "That it? You boys okay? You just calling in to report on the job?"

Dean hazards a glance to his right, sliding his eyes closed in dejection when he sees Sam staring pointedly at him, Bitch Face still very much in evidence.

He heaves out a sigh, not happy with the purpose of the call but knowing its necessity nevertheless. "I think I might need to get my ankle checked out again."

Bobby snorts and Dean can picture the accompanying eyeroll on the other end of the phone. "No Shit Sherlock. Sam and I have been saying that for how long now? What changed your mind?"

Dean ignores the older hunter's question, figures it'll likely come out at some point in the future but not really wanting to relive the all-too recent near-miss right at this moment. "So, I'm thinking maybe I should go back and talk to that surgeon. See what he thinks. Could we maybe crash with you again?"

"You boys miss me that much, huh? Just can't stay away? I know I'm Mr. Personality and all…"

"Shut up," Dean cuts in, the corner of his mouth quirking up with his reply. "Just answer the question old man."

"Well," Bobby draws out, taking his time putting his thoughts into words. "I guess it'd be all right."

Dean lets out a slow exhale, the first hurdle of having to eat crow over and done with.

"But Dean?" Bobby adds, garnering a grunted "Huh?" from the older Winchester. "Try not to be such a dumbass this time around."

 _ **To Be Continued…**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"Ah, Mr. Singer," the orthopedic surgeon says, shaking Dean's hand as he enters the room. "Decided I might know what I'm talking about after all, did you?" The doctor's words don't hold any bite, but Sam can tell by his brother's squirming that he's likely having to eat his own words. Probably uttered during one of the visits Bobby had driven him to, his "uncle" being the one to have access to the health insurance at the time.

Sam likes the doctor, likes his direct manner, the way he's able to call Dean on his bullshit and get to the heart of the matter. And the way he lays it all out for them both – the surgery itself, the recovery, the chances of complications, and the potential long-term issues if Dean continues to let his ankle go unchecked.

The procedure he thinks Dean will need is to reattach the ligaments that aren't healing properly, using a couple of sutures to stitch them to the bone; the surgery generally takes around an hour, then monitoring in the recovery room for a little while before being able to go home later that same day.

Even with the surgery, he explains, the ligaments will need at least six weeks to heal; the first week in a splint which is changed to a cast once the swelling resolves. The cast stays on for two weeks (no weight at all being allowed on the leg during that time), then into a walking boot for another four (allowed to use the surgically-repaired leg for balance only). After that, the physical therapy begins – gradually working on increasing weight-bearing and getting off of the crutches, then finally out of the boot and into a smaller ankle brace that's worn with regular shoes for an additional several weeks.

"You okay?" Sam asks his older brother when the doctor steps out of the room to get the necessary pre-operative paperwork. He'd been watching Dean's left leg taking on a life of its own and he's pretty sure that if he could hear inside his older brother's head, he'd have a front row seat to Metallica playing live at Madison Square Garden.

"Awesome," Dean mumbles, thumbnail scraping at a ground-in spot of dirt on the thigh of his jeans. Because there's no place he'd rather be than in a surgeon's office, listening to how his body's going to be cut open and put back together, then forced into inactivity for longer than is humanly possible.

"Dean," Sam begins, his words of reassurance cut short when Dean puts his hand up in a rather defensive gesture.

"Sam," Dean says, tone just shy of a growl, "I'm here aren't I?" He blows out a rather prolonged breath, focusing all of his efforts on the stubborn spot of dirt as he continues. "As much as it makes me want to hurl to think about what the doc just said, I know I can't keep ignoring it. If it were just me – fine. No problem. But the minute it puts you in danger, I know I've gotta do something about it." He quirks the side of his mouth and slides his glance over towards Sam, then adds, "Because I'm an awesome big brother."

"You're an awesome something for sure," Sam says blandly, "but I believe the word you're looking for is 'dumbass'."

"Bitch," Dean replies, unable to keep the reluctant smile off of his face.

"Jerk," Sam answers automatically, his own dimples making a brief appearance. His brother really is awesome most of the time. If you leave out the times when he's making an ass out of himself, driving Sam up a wall, or trying to put a couple of bullet holes into his little brother.

Not that he'd ever tell Dean that; wouldn't want his thick head to swell any bigger than it already is.

()o()o()o()o()

"What's up with Hopalong over there?" Bobby asks Sam, nodding his chin at Dean who's sitting glumly at the kitchen table, idly cleaning his gun.

Sam hazards a glance at his brother, rolling his eyes and huffing out a breath. "He's been like this ever since he figured out his ankle's not going to heal itself. I think he's in mourning."

Bobby's eyebrow quirks and his forehead furrows, his expression clearly saying the "what the hell for" that his voice fails to verbalize.

Sam just shrugs, not even trying to pretend to understand the inner workings of his older brother's brain. That's a job for psychiatric professionals.

"You know I can hear you guys, right?" says Dean morosely, not even bothering to look up from the weapon in his hands. "And stop calling me Hopalong, already. I'm walking again, aren't I?"

"Fine then, Gimpy," Bobby says, correcting the short-term nickname for the older. "But you'll be Hopalong again as soon as you're back on crutches."

Dean's lip curls in disgust, already hating the surgery and its sequelae, not even sure how he'll make it through. "Fantastic," he mutters, trying to take out some of his frustrations on the inanimate object clutched in his grip.

"Oh, come on, man," Sam says, trying to wheedle something other than despair from his older brother. "It won't be all bad." He pauses when Dean gives him an incredulous look and then quickly continues to wrack his brain in an effort to back up his statement. "Think of the women," he finally says, knowing that the way to his brother's heart, short of food, is through his pants. "They dig the injured guy, right?"

Dean gives his brother a long look, then just sighs. "I guess." He narrows his eyes and swings his glance to Bobby, muttering, "Better be a lot of hot chicks around here, Singer."

Bobby snorts. "Yeah," he says, "it's a regular Victoria's Secret."

"Yeah, well, just as long as I don't see you traipsing around here in your negligee," retorts Dean.

"It's my house. I'll do whatever I damned well please," says Bobby with a straight face.

The Winchesters have seen a lot of horrible things in their short lives. The mental image of Bobby Singer in frilly lingerie by far exceeds them all.

()o()o()o()o()

Dean spends the next couple of days completing what he calls his Bucket List, and what Sam and Bobby call "just plain ridiculous".

"You're not dying, dude," Sam reminds him on more than one occasion.

"Yeah, well, you're not the one who's gonna to be on crutches for the next couple of months, now are you?" Dean retorts, defending his desire to do all the things that won't be that easy in the coming weeks.

He's been going up and down Bobby's stairs much more frequently than is really called for, his heavy limping steps setting Bobby's teeth on edge every time he hears the squeaks that signal the younger hunter's activities, while Sam worries about his brother's ankle giving out and sending him tumbling to the bottom of the steep staircase in a heap. But Dean just keeps going, mainly because he can. And because in a couple of days it's going to get a hell of a lot more difficult.

He's been showering at least twice a day, which has Bobby grumbling about his water bill and has Sam reminiscing about some of the hunts they've been on where neither of them had been able to bathe for close to a week. But Dean doesn't really give a damn, because in another couple of days it's going to be awkward bathtub time. And he's going to hate it.

And while he'd really like to go out for a run, get some of the nervous energy out of his system, his ankle just won't let him. So he settles for pacing around Bobby's junkyard, his repetitive circles around the grounds putting Sam on edge as he cringes with each of Dean's ungainly limp-hops. And while his paltry attempt at exercise is far from satisfying, it's a lot more activity than he'll be getting for the foreseeable future, a fact that depresses him even more than the bathing issue, seeing as how it means he's officially hunt-free for the foreseeable future.

Not to mention the miles he's managed to put on the Impala since deciding to go under the knife. Because that just might be the worst of it all – not being able to drive his baby. And at least his time on the road gets him out of Bobby's house, allows the general moroseness that's been hanging in the air to dissipate for a couple of hours while Dean's away. Something Bobby and Sam are just as happy about. Because a cooped-up Dean tends to set everybody's teeth on edge.

So it's with a mixture of emotions that Dean's surgery date finally arrives, the elder Winchester anxiously depressed about his procedure and his subsequent limitations while Sam's relieved to finally be making progress towards having his brother healthy again.

Of course, there's still several months until Dean will fully be back on his feet.

And it might just take a miracle for all three hunters to make it out alive.

()o()o()o()o()

"Can you give us a few minutes alone?" Dean asks quietly, still seated in the driver's seat of the Impala in the hospital parking lot, his hands gently caressing the steering wheel.

"Dude – you're not dying," Sam reiterates yet again, giving his brother one final eyeroll before huffing himself out of the passenger's seat in order to leave Dean alone with his car before his surgery.

"Okay baby," Dean says, talking softly to his most prized possession. "I'm gonna be out of commission for a little while. I'll still be here, but Sam's gonna be in the driver's seat for a few weeks. Promise he'll take real good care of you. Or I'll beat his ass to a bloody pulp."

He takes a few more seconds to enjoy the feel of the driver's seat before making his way out of the car, straightening up only to get a face full of a smirking Sam.

"Dude. You know that's messed up, right?" Sam says, jerking a thumb back towards the Impala as he turns and walks with Dean towards the registration area of the hospital.

"Shut up," Dean mutters as he limps alongside Sam. "You're messed up."

The brothers continue on in silence for a few more seconds before Sam speaks again.

"You know you're gonna be fine, right? This is a pretty routine surgery. The surgeon has a good record, gets really good outcomes."

"Yeah," Dean sighs, shoulders slumping in dejection. "I just hate being out of commission for so long, you know?"

"Oh, I know," Sam draws out, his eyebrow cocked in a bland expression. "And Bobby knows. And the doctor knows," he adds, thinking of how many times Dean has grumbled about the same thing. "I'm pretty sure the girl at the coffee shop knows."

Sam's words don't hold any bite, instead the teasing tone finagles a slight twitch of the lips from his older brother as he recalls his rather passionate grumbling session from the other day.

"Don't worry," Sam continues, "I'm sure we can find something to keep you occupied. I think Bobby said he needs help translating those old books from Latin."

"Oh God," Dean moans, his mind already envisioning the pile of dusty tomes in the older hunter's library. "Kill me now."

Sam rolls his eyes at his brother's dramatic musings, punching him lightly in the shoulder when they reach the check-in desk.

"Alright man, you got this."

"Yeah, okay," says Dean, taking a deep breath in an effort to quell the anxiety and dread bubbling up within him, "I've got this."

He's never wanted to "get" anything less in his life.

()o()o()o()o()

"Uggghhhh," Dean moans, swimming up through the haze of anesthesia still swirling through his veins. His eyelids flutter open only to squint against the harsh white fluorescent overhead lighting and he blinks several times to try to clear his vision while trying to work some saliva into his pasty mouth.

"Hey man," comes a familiar voice to his left.

"Hey," he grunts in reply, slowly turning his head on the pillow in order to bring Sam's gigantic head into his line of vision.

"How're you feeling?" Sam asks, his expression a mixture of true concern and something else that Dean can't quite nail down.

Dean gives his brother's question serious thought, finally answering succinctly. "Numb."

They'd given him a general anesthetic to knock him out as well as something called a peripheral nerve block in order to numb his lower leg. So for right now, he's not too bad. Can't feel anything in his right leg below his knee.

"Unfortunately, that'll wear off over the next couple of hours," says the nurse who'd appeared by his bedside as soon as she'd heard the brothers talking. "We'll get you a prescription for some medications; you'll want to stay ahead of the pain. Don't try to chase it – it's easier if you can head it off at the pass," she says, bustling around him while she checks his vital signs.

"Peachy," Dean groans, not liking either off those options, he and the pain meds not always on the best of terms, pain usually just a bitch in general.

"Alright, I already gave your brother the rundown," she says, drawing the sheet down from where it had been covering his lower body, "let's go over it again now that you're awake."

She pushes the button at the side of his bed, moving him into a more upright seated position, allowing him to see his surgically repaired leg propped up on a pillow, a thick layer of ACE bandages up to his knee keeping a rigid splint in place, his toes just barely peeking out at the bottom.

Dean's lip curls in disgust, the stark reminder of his next several weeks on crutches and limited mobility literally stretched out in front of himself.

"Hey man, pay attention," Sam admonishes, nudging Dean's shoulder when he catches the look that tells him Dean's head is somewhere besides on the instructions the nurse is reviewing.

Dean zeroes back in on her words, well aware of the instructions from his pre-op visits and more than sure Sam already has them committed to memory, but listening anyway as she reviews the hell of his upcoming weeks.

No weight-bearing, no putting any pressure on it, no using it for balance.

Dean physically shrinks back against his pillow at the steely narrow-eyed look she gives him, trying to impress upon him the importance of the surgeon's instructions. If she weren't so spot-on with her assessment of his penchant for bending the rules, he might even be a little offended.

But instead, she just continues her litany: use your crutches at all times, no taking the splint off at all unless you've talked to the surgeon first, keep that leg elevated above your heart as much as possible to help with the swelling, be sure to ice it several times a day.

"Awesome," Dean says sarcastically when she's finished her catalogue of fun-sucking instructions, struggling into the track pants he'd brought along to fit over his new leg accessory.

Because he's pretty sure these next few weeks will be anything but.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"I got it, I got it," Dean grumbles, swatting Sam's hands away as he reaches out to help him work his way out of the car. He carefully moves his splinted right leg over the edge of the doorframe, then pulls the crutches out from behind his seat and hoists himself upright, balancing himself against the side of the Impala until he can get the crutches tucked securely under his armpits before making his way slowly towards Bobby's front door.

"Seriously man?" Dean growls when Sam once again threatens to try to help him, his hands hovering at the ready as Dean adjusts his position in order to get up the short flight of rickety steps. "Back off. I'm fine."

"Well fine then," Sam huffs. "Fall flat on your ass. See if I care," he grumbles back, shoving his hands in his pockets in an effort to keep them to himself even as his eyes stay glued to his brother, ready to spring into action should Dean wobble even in the slightest.

Dean grips the railing of Bobby's front steps in his left hand, both crutches tucked under his right armpit, and hauls himself up the steps without incident, his previous stint on crutches holding him in depressingly good stead when it comes to the How To's of maneuvering around.

He resettles himself on his crutches and makes his way through the front door that Sam's holding open for him, barely rolling his eyes at Sam's next attempt to help before making a beeline over to the ratty old couch in the living room where he'll be spending the majority of his waking hours over the next few days.

One hand braced on the armrest of the sofa, the other still clutching his crutches, he takes a couple of small hops on his left leg in order to get into a position to sink down onto the couch, laying his crutches down on the ground before using his hands to help move his still partially numb leg up onto a couple of waiting pillows.

"Hey!" Bobby calls out, meandering into the room just as Dean gets himself settled. "Hopalong's back!"

"Oh, bite me," Dean grumbles, working to get the lumpy pillows situated under his leg.

The dull ache in his ankle has been slowly building as the nerve block's been wearing off, and Bobby's reminder about his mobility issues only serves to ratchet up his level of annoyance at the whole damned situation.

"What crawled up your shorts?" Bobby retorts, eyebrows furrowed as he gives the younger hunter an affronted scowl.

"Sorry," Dean says with a weary sigh. "Just been a long day, you know?"

"Yeah," Bobby says with a sigh of his own, lowering himself into his overstuffed leather armchair. "You okay?" he asks, his gaze sharpening as it runs over the younger hunter. "You need anything?"

"Nah, I'm good," Dean says, waving his hand distractedly to dispel Bobby's offer of help.

"Here," Sam says as he enters the room, arm outstretched as he approaches his older brother.

Dean gives his brother a tired smile, takes the offered cold pack from Sam, and places it over his ankle before lying back in order to follow the doctor's orders to get his leg elevated higher than his heart in the hopes that it helps with the blossoming pain in his leg.

"Thanks, Sammy," Dean replies, both in response to his brother's peace offering and as a begrudging Thank You for his brother's willingness to play caregiver to his sorry ass.

"No problem, you big jerk."

Not yet, anyway.

()o()o()o()o()

"Dude! Just take the freaking pills already!"

Dean just glares at the two little pills sitting right under his nose in Sam's gigantic hand, wishing there was another way to get the throbbing in his ankle to calm the fuck down. Short of cutting off his leg, that is. Because he really doesn't like the way the pain meds make him feel – all dopey and spacey and like his stomach's going to heave itself right out of his body.

Sam's already got enough sordid information on him to blackmail him to kingdom come; he really doesn't need any extra ammunition.

He'd awoken after a short nap, not sure if he was more relieved at the fact that he could now fully wiggle his toes or dismayed to find that the nerve block had finally worn off, allowing him to experience the brunt of having had his ankle opened up and stitched back together.

That mental imagery combined with the actual pain is enough to give his complexion a rather greenish hue, the change in Dean's countenance causing Sam to nudge the trash can a bit closer to where Dean's still lying on the sofa, just in case.

"Fine," he says, dry swallowing the pills, "but I'd better not find myself on YouTube somewhere."

"Oh, you won't," says Sam, his "cat that ate the canary" expression doing nothing to reassure Dean. "And how do you even know about YouTube? You can barely even work a computer."

Dean gets a shifty look, his eyes sliding away from Sam's narrow-eyed inquiring gaze.

"Is there porn on YouTube?" Bobby drawls from where he's leaning against the doorframe to the room. "Because if there is, I think you just found your answer."

Dean ignores both Sam's question and Bobby's supposition, working himself into a semi-upright position, the sagging couch already causing his muscles to complain, grimacing when he carefully lowers his pounding ankle to the floor. Because yeah, he probably should have tried to stay ahead of the pain.

"What do you think you're doing?" Sam asks, his challenging tone equaled by the Bitch Face he's directing towards his older brother.

"Geez warden," Dean says tetchily, working to get himself upright with the aid of the coffee table and his crutches. "Can't a guy even go to the bathroom by himself anymore? I gotta sign something? Fill out a request form?"

"Hey!" Bobby calls softly, his voice a warning. "Go easy on your brother, huh? He's just trying to keep your dumb ass in one piece, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles as he crutches his way to the bathroom.

The fact is, he's well aware that none of this is Sam's fault. That his current predicament lies solely on his own shoulders. Well, more like in his pants, since it was his libido's reaction to that hot blonde that got him into this whole mess in the first place.

It's just that Sam's the most convenient outlet for his frustrations. Always has been. And the fact that it's practically his duty as an older brother to pick on Sam means that most of the time it's just his natural instincts to react the way he normally does.

As he takes care of letting his bladder empty, tight grip on the bathroom sink to help keep himself upright, he thinks maybe he should reconsider how he reacts to Sam's overprotective, well-meaning tendencies.

Because Sam's only trying to look out for him, right?

()o()o()o()o()

"Oh, you little bitch," Dean spits out, his outrage at the paper sitting neatly in front of him barely contained.

He's graduated from spending most of his time lying flat on his back to being allowed up and around on a limited basis, and he's now sitting at Bobby's kitchen table, his leg propped up on another chair while Sam watches his face carefully and Bobby glances curiously between the two brothers.

And while at first Dean had wondered just what about their crappy meal of boxed Hamburger Helper had Sam quite so pleased, now he knows. It wasn't the dinner itself, but what he had planned afterwards.

His little brother had practically make a show of pulling the neatly folded piece of paper out of his back pocket, smoothing it out on the table in front of himself with something that looked suspiciously like a loving caress. He'd then shown it to Bobby, who'd perused it with little more than a gleam in his eye and a curt nod, before sliding it in front of Dean with a smug look that had the older Winchester instantly on edge.

And now that Dean's read through it, he knows why Sam looks so pleased with himself. And why he'd reassured Dean that he wouldn't do anything untoward while he was taking the pain medications after his surgery.

It's because he already had his ace in the hole.

A piece of paper handwritten in the form of a contract, Dean's signature on the bottom of the page, which Sam had put together while his older brother was still in the hospital, coming off of his anesthesia high.

And while that in and of itself shouldn't be all that surprising, Sam, after all, having studied pre-law, it's the contents of the contract that have Dean's panties in a twist, so to speak

Because if this piece of paper is to be believed, his next few weeks are going to be even worse than he'd anticipated.

He's apparently "solemnly sworn" to eat at least three fruits and/or vegetables a day. Two less than Sam would really like, he's quick to interject, and three more than Dean sees on most days.

And Sam's made him promise to go an entire week without eating anything with the words "high fructose corn syrup" on the ingredient list. Sam's helpful enough to also point out the alternate names for that particular ingredient, as well as supplying him with a list of his favorite foods that contain said ingredient. Which is pretty much all of them.

He's also supposed to sit through a documentary on the evils of eating meat. Something Sam said gave him serious pause before he was able to eat a burger again.

Dean briefly wonders is his brother is trying to starve him to death.

And then there are the non-food items on the list.

He's obligated to sit through an entire album of Sam's choosing. No doubt some crappy emo shit that will have Dean climbing the walls by the end of the first track.

And he's agreed to read the entire first Harry Potter book, cover to cover, Sam having provided a clause that prevents him from just watching the movie.

But the one that really sticks in his craw is the one he's sure Sam will delight in the most. Because it appears that he's agreed to let his little brother pick out the color of the cast he'll be getting in a few days.

"Dude!" Dean spits out as he finishes reading through the list of embarrassing and nearly impossible feats. "Not fair! I was doped up after surgery. It doesn't count."

"Oh, it counts," Sam says smugly, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. "Bobby? Can I get a ruling?"

Bobby appears to give it some deep thought, if his furrowed brow and pursed lips are anything to go by, then agrees with Sam, saying, "It counts," banging his empty beer bottle lightly against the table in lieu of a gavel.

"Dammit," Dean mutters, the squirming he's performing due to the thought of completing any of the tasks on the list as well as the discomfort in his throbbing ankle. "Well, what if I just don't do it? What are you gonna do? You can't make me, you know," he says, his crossed arms and the scowl on his face making him look less like a feared hunter and more like a petulant five-year old.

Sam leans forward, forearms resting on the table as he looks shrewdly at his brother, causing Dean to raise a steely eyebrow in return, Bobby looking on as an innocent bystander to the intense battle of Winchester wills.

"I double dog dare you."

Dean's eyes narrow in response to Sam's words, the weight of the challenge hitting like a punch to the gut. Because while a questionably legitimate legal document might not be enough to cause Dean to comply with the points laid out in front of him, there's no way he's going to let his little brother win a double dog dare.

Even if the actual completion of said tasks threatens to strip him of his manhood.

Dean can't ever recall feeling quite this conflicted in his life.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_

A/N: Thanks to those of you reading, following, and reviewing – love you all!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"Sammy, I gotta get out of here."

The urgency in Dean's voice is reflected by the wild look in his eyes, the wide orbs of green searching Sam's face as he tries to impress upon his brother his need to get out of the house that has been his prison since his surgery.

"You gotta help me, man."

Dean's itching to go anywhere, do anything to keep himself from continuing to slowly climb the walls. It's only been five days since his surgery and he already feels like he's been under house arrest for the better part of a life sentence.

Needless to say, Dean doesn't do patience very well.

Sam gives his brother a long, measured look, finally nodding slightly as if in confirmation that he'd been expecting this.

Because he was.

He knows his brother better than anyone else (and even better than Dean knows himself sometimes), and while Bobby had bet him that the elder Winchester would crack in the second week of having the cast on his leg, Sam was fairly certain his brother wouldn't even make it to the end of the splint stage of his post-op recuperation to begin his descent into madness.

"You sure you can handle it?" Sam asks, glancing down at Dean's ACE wrapped leg, carefully held up off the floor as his older brother continuously shifts himself on his crutches in a show of antsiness, the perpetual motion putting Sam on edge as well.

Dean eagerly nods, willing to agree to almost anything right now if it means he can leave this damned house.

The pain in his ankle, although somewhat improved, still rears its ugly head much more frequently than he'd like to admit and he figures a little fresh air would do him a world of good, if only to get his mind off of his crappy luck and give himself a time out from the shabby couch that practically has an imprint of his ass on it as a result of his forced inactivity.

"Alright then," Sam continues, "I was gonna head to the library. Need to look at some stuff for Bobby." He gives Dean a sly glance and then decides to give the knife a little twist. "I think they might have that Harry Potter book you've been wanting to read."

Dean gives him a hard glare but keeps his mouth shut, not wanting Sam to renege on his willingness to act as chauffeur. Not to mention the fact that at this stage of the game, he might be just about bored enough to make good on that little portion of the contract.

Goddamn Sam and his sneaky subterfuge.

()o()o()o()o()

"Jesus, could you have parked any farther away?" Dean grumbles as he slowly works his leg out of the car, careful to keep it off the ground as he hoists himself to his feet and gets himself settled on the crutches Sam's holding out for him.

"Thought the fresh air might do you good," says Sam with a shrug, Dean giving his little brother a hard look as he recalls having had similar thoughts before leaving Bobby's house.

Damn, but his little brother is scary good sometimes.

Sam's careful to keep his pace slow, allowing Dean to crutch his way towards the front door of the downtown library without an overabundance of exertion, this being the most exercise he's gotten since his laps around Bobby's junkyard prior to his surgery. And while at first it does feel good to get the blood flowing a bit more than the past few days have allowed, the elder Winchester gives a snarl when he gets a good look at the gigantic set of stairs leading up to the main entrance, reluctantly changing his direction to head up the side ramp while Sam takes the steps two at a time.

"Show off," Dean mutters to his brother as he passes through the door Sam's holding open for him, the tone of his voice holding more envy than bite.

Sam allows the briefest of smirks to cross his face before he jets off ahead of his brother, leaving Dean to slowly make his way down the main hall towards the circulation desk where he can see his brother engaged in conversation with the librarian, Sam jerking his thumb backwards at Dean on more than one occasion.

He's only been out of the house for about a half an hour, but Dean's already second-guessing himself now that his leg's been the victim of gravity for far longer than it's been accustomed to since having gone under the knife, the throbbing in his ankle picking up significantly, making him wish he'd snagged one of his pain pills on his way out the door.

But he'd pestered Sam into letting him come along (that fact itself already rankling him enough), so he's decided he'll just have to suck it up and deal, even if he would almost give his left pinky finger right now for a comfy couch and a big fluffy pillow in order to get his leg elevated.

His depressing train of thought is halted by Sam's approach, the smug look on his brother's face doing nothing to help his outlook until he sees the reason behind Sam's expression. And then he could practically kiss him. If he were the kind of guy who engaged in Chick Flick Moments. Or kissed anyone other than scantily clad women.

Because Sam's guided him into a well-lit reading room, the sunbeam coming through the large window spotlighting the large overstuffed sofa that looks long enough for him to accommodate him and his outstretched leg.

Dean thinks it might be one of the most beautiful sights he's ever seen.

The fact that the sofa isn't in Bobby's house and doesn't contain his ass imprint make it all the more desirable, even if it is pretty much the same damned thing.

"You good here?" Sam asks as Dean crutches over to the sofa, trying to contain his elation, a groan of contentment escaping his lips as he sinks gratefully into the sofa causing Sam's smirk to re-emerge.

Dean nods, his gesture not quite as reassuring as he'd been hoping, given the wince that creeps across his face as he gets his leg elevated on the seat beside himself.

Shit. He really should have taken one of those pain pills. Or stayed at home.

Barely containing the growl that both thoughts trigger, he gives his brother another nod, trying to prevent himself from rolling his eyes as Sam fusses over him.

"Dude, I'm fine. Go get your geek on," he says, flapping his hands towards his little brother, the gesture and Dean's exasperated tone triggering an eye roll of his own from Sam.

The brothers' exchange is interrupted by the appearance of another person in the room, the wiry young-ish librarian Sam had spoken with upon their arrival picking that moment to approach the younger Winchester.

"Here you go," she says, handing a thick paperback over to Sam with a warm smile, her expression changing to one of slight concern when her gaze slides over to Dean. "You okay?" she asks, triggering a tight smile from Dean as he wonders if his foreseeable future will be riddled with the inane question that does little more than piss him off.

Because yeah, he's great.

The throbbing in his ankle is keeping time with his heartbeat, his little brother's managed to basically blackmail him into activities that bring his manhood into question, and he's looking at another four to six weeks of being called "Hopalong" by Sam and Bobby.

So yeah. He's fan-fucking-tastic.

"Yep. Thanks," he says, careful to keep the wince off his face as he tries to get his aching leg situated in a semi-tolerable position.

She gives him one last skeptical glance before reassuring Sam that she's looking into the other resources he'd asked about, then quickly hustles back out of the room.

"Hey, thanks Carol!" Sam calls after her, holding the book out towards Dean. "Alright get to it," he says, dropping the book onto his brother's chest when Dean fails to take it from his outstretched hands.

Dean's lip curls, the disgust equally divided between his bum ankle and his little brother's conniving ways, giving Sam the stink eye even as he shoos him out of the room, finally dropping his head back against the sofa and closing his eyes as he takes a few deep controlled breaths, blowing them out slowly in an attempt to gain some control back over his traitorous body.

What small amount of progress Dean manages to make with the pain in his ankle is short-lived, the incessant throbbing suddenly skyrocketing when his leg is jarred, the unexpected motion causing his eyelids to snap open as he fails to stifle a gasp.

"Sonofabi….," he trails off, his favored expression dying on his lips as he takes in the instigator of his increased discomfort.

A little boy, somewhere in the neighborhood of eight or nine years old has plopped himself down next to Dean's splinted leg, the cushions beneath his body continuing to bounce as he swings his legs back and forth over the edge of the sofa, his feet not yet able to touch the ground.

"Hey," the boy says, his eyebrows meeting in the middle of his forehead in a show of disapproval. "You're in my seat."

"What?" Dean asks, looking around to see if there's anything resembling a responsible adult nearby who might belong to the kid even as he draws his leg towards himself slightly in a protective gesture and continues to take controlled breaths through the pain.

"My seat," the boy persists, jabbing a finger to the side of couch currently occupied by Dean.

"I don't see your name on it anywhere," Dean responds, the boy's hair that's spiking out from his head in poorly-tamed cowlicks and the small smudge of dirt gracing his left cheek triggering Dean's memory as he recalls Sam at a similar age.

"Duh," is the boy's response, the accompanying eye roll tugging the corner of Dean's mouth upwards. "You can't put your name on a sofa."

"Then how do I know it's really yours?" Dean asks, finding their ridiculous little argument oddly satisfying despite the continued throbbing in his ankle.

"Cause it is. Everybody knows it. I'm here all the time," he replies with a shrug, as if that answer should be enough to make his point.

The two males engage in a rather impromptu staring contest, Dean finally cracking when the kid just continues to give him the same hairy eyeball that he's giving the kid, his lip twitching as he gives the boy props for not backing down.

He repositions himself on the sofa to allow the kid a little more room, earning him a quick nod of appreciation before the librarian who'd been helping Sam makes her way back into the room.

"Steven!" she whispers tersely, her expression somewhere between relief and apology. "Are you bothering this man?"

She gives the boy a hard look, eyes narrowed as the little boy gives her a rather innocent look in return.

"No mom. Promise," he adds, crossing his heart with his hand, sliding a pleading glance over towards Dean, as if silently asking for his corroboration.

"I am so sorry if he's bothering you," Carol says, turning to Dean. "Thinks he has the run of the place since I work here," she says with a tilt of her head and a raise of her eyebrows that makes Dean think the two of them have probably had this same conversation more than once or twice before.

"Nah, he's fine," Dean replies with a little shake of his head.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Not a problem." _As long as he stays away from my freakin' ankle._

"Okay Steven. I expect you to be on your best behavior. And be careful of the man's leg, okay?" she adds, eyebrows raised in silent question, looking to Dean for assurance that it's okay for Steven to remain where he is.

"Sure mom!" Steven chirps, bouncing just enough in his excitement to jar Dean's ankle yet again, causing an involuntary hiss of pain to escape his lips.

"It's fine, it's fine," Dean is quick to reassure both Carol and himself between controlled breaths. "Just a little fresh off the surgery boat yet," he adds with a wry smile. "How about we do a little Musical Chairs here, huh?"

He and Steven perform a quick rearranging of their seating, leaving Steven happy to have his usual seat while Dean's glad to get his leg out of the kid's line of fire. And the chair that Carol's found to accompany his outstretched leg, although looking like something that should belong in some grandmother's house somewhere, is actually very comfortable, doing a much better job of cushioning his leg than the couch was.

He again reassures Carol that Steven hanging out with him is no problem, the librarian finally heading back to her post only after she's made sure to garner solemn promises of good behavior and inside voices.

Because although he'd rather not reinjure himself (especially in a library – Sam and Bobby would never let him live that down), he does welcome the company. Especially if it's not one of the two hunters who are keeping him under tight lock and key.

Not to mention the fact that the little boy might just offer an excuse to forego beginning the book Sam had oh-so-helpfully obtained for him.

Although that hope dies quickly at Steven's next actions.

The little boy leans over to examine the cover of the book lying on Dean's lap, glancing up when he sees the recognizable images.

"Is that Harry Potter?"

Dean gives the book a half-snarl, nodding in disgusted confirmation.

"Mom and I read that one. A couple of times. It's pretty good. Third one's my favorite though."

"Crap, there's more than one?" Dean mumbles to himself, wincing slightly at the giggle that emanates from Steven at his accidental curse.

"Yep. That one has a werewolf."

"Huh," Dean says, his expression taking on just a hint of interest as he gives the book a second glance. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

By the time Sam's completed his recon for the day, his brain's full of lore on Elvin creatures of the Appalachian region (the topic Bobby had assigned to Sam, citing a contact who's been roaming the backwoods of Tennessee slowly going insane trying to get a handle on mysterious occurrences; Sam's pretty sure Bobby was just trying to get his house to himself for a couple of hours), his stomach is letting him know just how many hours it's been since his last meal, and his ass is sore from the rigid wooden chairs in the research room.

No to mention the dread and anxiety levels that have been slowly building at the thought of what kind of trouble Dean may have been able to get himself into in his absence.

Because he has no doubt that the fact that his brother's on crutches won't keep him down for long. Even though it really should.

But the sight that greets him when he goes back to the reading room has him wondering why he doubted his brother in the first place.

Because Dean is still seated on the couch where he left him, just in a slightly different position, a little boy tucked under his left arm as he reads aloud.

Sam's dimples make an appearance as he takes a moment to just lean against the entryway of the room, loathe to interrupt his brother as he describes Harry Potter's first foray into the magical side of London, memories washing over him as he recalls himself in the little boy's position, curled up against his big brother as Dean reads him bedtime stories.

"You gonna keep standing there being creepy or are you gonna come in?" Dean asks in a louder voice when he gets to the end of a paragraph, not even bothering to turn around to address his brother, his innate "Sam Sense" always in tune to his brother's whereabouts.

"So," Sam says, pushing himself off the doorway and making his way further into the room. "You doing okay in here?" he asks, his eyes sliding back and forth between the kid and his brother even as a smug smile makes its way onto his face. "You find a friend?"

"Shaddup," Dean drawls, eyebrows furrowed in a show of how unamusing he thinks Sam is. "Steven, Sam. Sam, Steven," Dean says, making quick introductions. "Librarian's kid," he adds when Sam just continues to give him an amused look of intrigue.

"He treat you okay?" Sam asks Steven, squatting down to get on his eye level.

"Yep," Steven says, giving a brief nod before glancing back up at Dean. "He's a pretty good reader. Even if I did have to help him with some of the names."

Sam bites his lip in an effort to keep the laugh to himself, the boy taking very seriously his critique of Dean and his reading skills.

"Alright man," Dean says, scooching himself away from Steven before gingerly lowing his leg to the ground. "I think my time's up here. Gotta get back to jail. It's been fun."

"Dean," Sam hisses, not missing the way the look of interest that crosses the little boy's face at his brother's words. "He's just kidding," Sam adds quickly. "We're just going back home."

Dean merely rolls his eyes at Sam's defensive interjection, finding it more necessary to get himself upright and balanced on his crutches without taking a nosedive than to argue with his brother over semantics.

Because he really does kind of feel like he's been allowed out on good behavior. Only now he's got to go back to lock up.

"You coming back?" Steven asks, a note of hopefulness in his voice as his eyes search Dean's face.

"You gotta talk to the warden here," Dean says, tilting his head towards Sam.

Sam's eyebrows slam together as he sends Dean a Bitch Face, softening his expression before he turns back to Steven. "I think we can probably manage that. Today's Monday. How about if we come back on Thursday? Same time?"

Steven tilts his head, his little face taking on a serious expression as he considers Sam's proposal, before finally giving a nod directed equally towards Sam and Dean.

"Seriously man?" Dean asks as he crutches his way back down the hallway towards the main entrance of the library, careful to keep the hope of another field trip under wraps. "We're coming back? So soon?"

"Oh admit it," Sam says, his eyeroll softened by the half-smile on his face. "You liked it. I know you did."

"Yeah, well, maybe the kid was okay. Although the book's kind of iffy. And just how many of them are there anyway? Kid said the third one's his favorite."

"Seven."

"What? Seven? Our deal's only for the first one, right?" Dean asks, a panicked edge to his voice.

Sam shakes his head and rolls his eyes, giving his brother a weary "Yes Dean" in reply.

"Alright, good. Cause I don't know how much of this crap I can handle."

Neither does Sam.

()o()o()o()o()

"Aaahahaha."

The ridiculous strangled sound that breaks free of Dean's lips causes Sam to give his brother a "what the hell" expression, the combination somewhere in between a laugh and a groan of pain.

"Hurts," Dean pants in explanation, "but kind of tickles too."

He lets lose another similar utterance as the medical assistant at the surgeon's office pulls out another suture, Dean trying valiantly to hold still to avoid any unnecessary tugging at his incision site while mentally imploring her to _hurry the fuck up_.

Although he's really not quite so sure why he's in such a rush. Because today is the day he gets his cast on. And even though that means he's one week closer to having this whole hellish ordeal behind him, he has no doubt that Sam has thought long and hard about how he can make Dean suffer for the two weeks before he graduates to the walking boot.

Once all of his sutures are out and the surgeon's done his part to proclaim Dean's ankle fit for casting, nodding in approval at the well-healing suture site, the minimal swelling, and the bruising that's taken on a more greenish yellow hue, he bustles out of the room again, leaving the brothers alone with the medical assistant, Dean's leg stretched out in front of him with strict instructions to not even think about moving it.

Not that Dean would. Well, he might. But he's pretty sure he couldn't, even if he wanted to. Not if the amount of throbbing pain that's kicked up again after the miniscule amount of movement he'd been allowed for his suture removal is any indication.

And Sam's careful to keep one eye trained on him, ready to jump to attention and put a stop to any of his brother's shenanigans, even while most of his attention is back with the medical assistant, listening attentively to the various types of casting materials available.

Although it's not so much the materials Sam's interested in as the colors.

The MA's eyebrows slide up to her hairline when Sam answers her question about the desired cast color, Dean shooting his brother a look of horror and trying desperately to wheedle some form of compromise from Sam, finally letting out a growl and a barely restrained "dammit" when Sam pulls out the piece of paper that has quickly become the bane of Dean's existence, jabbing a finger at the applicable item on the agreement with little more than a raised eyebrow.

Because while he should have been expecting it, he'd been holding out hope that Sam wouldn't go for fully stripping away his manhood.

He really should have known better.

()o()o()o()o()

"Ooh, la la," Bobby says, wagging his eyebrows at Dean when he sees the hot pink cast peeking out from below the hem of his ubiquitous track pants. "Fancy, ain't cha?"

"Shut up, old man," Dean grumbles as he makes his way back to Bobby's living room, snagging one of his pain pills and dry swallowing it before he sinks down onto Bobby's couch, his irritation with Sam combining with the ache in his ankle to make him ready to bite off the head of the next person who looks at him funny.

He hears the low voices of the other two hunters from their location in the kitchen as he lays down, carefully arranging his leg on the lumpy pillows, throwing his arms over his face in an effort to pretend he's anywhere but here.

He'd thought about making his way upstairs to his bedroom, but it's just too damned exhausting - hauling himself up the stairs with the crutches tucked under one arm and a death grip on the railing with the other. Not to mention the fact that he shares the bedroom with Sam anyway. So he might as well just stay here on the couch.

Stewing in his own juices.

Cursing the hot blonde, his damned ankle, his ass of a brother, and just about anything else he deems fit, more than fed up with his plight in life at this particular moment in time.

"Oh come on man," Sam says, sinking into Bobby's armchair as he takes in Dean's sulking form. "Paybacks."

"Really not in the mood Sam," the elder Winchester growls, his arms still covering his eyes.

He can hear the huff of exasperation his little brother directs his way even as the leather of the chair squeaks under Sam's gigantor body, the chair growing quiet again as something hits him in the chest.

"What?" Dean asks tersely, taking deep breaths in an effort to keep himself under control. He cracks his eye open and sees a couple of DVDs sitting in the middle of his chest. "This that damned documentary you're gonna make me watch? Great. Thanks. Kick a man while he's down, why don't ya."

"Just take a look, you big jerk," Sam replies, his tone one of long-suffering exasperation.

Dean does as Sam suggests, being sure to shoot his brother a look of disgust when he moves his hands away from his face, lifting the DVDs up into his line of vision, a begrudging hint of a smile creeping onto his face when he sees the titles.

The first two seasons of the X-Files.

"Checked 'em out from the library. Thought maybe you could use some cheering up."

"Was that before or after you decided to make me walk around with a pink cast for two weeks?"

"Oh, come on man. Seriously? This doesn't even come anywhere close to that time I broke my arm."

Dean's eyebrows furrow as he tries to recall the incident his little brother's talking about, not doubting for one minute that Sam probably owes him one. Or ten.

Sam can see the moment that the memory hits Dean full-on, his older brother's sulking expression morphing into one of smug amusement.

"You mean the time I tried to explain a little sex ed to you?"

"Dean. I had to walk around with an anatomically correct penis drawn on my arm. For six weeks. In 10th grade."

Dean can't help the huff of a laugh that escapes him at the memory and Sam's continued outrage. "Well that sounds like a personal problem, Sammy."

"Personal problem," Sam mutters, "you're my personal problem."

"Yeah, well, you guys are both gigantic pains in my ass. So quit your whining," Bobby says, throwing in his two cents as he passes by on his way to his study.

The brothers roll their eyes at each other in unspoken answer to Bobby's snide remarks, the tension between them put on hold for the moment being.

And as the two young hunters settle in to watch the first couple of episodes of a TV show that comes scarily close to telling their own life stories, Dean's willing to begrudgingly admit that sometimes his brother doesn't suck ass after all.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"Hey," Steven says, taking up residence on Dean's left side, the older of the two males in the library's reading room having decided to prevent any further battles for seating supremacy by arranging himself on the other end of the sofa from the get-go.

"Hey yourself."

"Why's your leg pink?"

"Cause my brother's a douchebag," Dean mutters to himself, his upper lip curling in disgust as he takes in the sight of the hot pink cast visible past the hemline of his track pants of the leg stretched out in front of himself.

"What's a douchebag?"

"Uhhhh," Dean manages to reply, more than grateful when he's spared having to backtrack on his comment or provide any further explanations by the arrival of Carol.

"Oh hey," she says when she sees who it is that her son's been talking to, doing a double-take when she sees Dean's new leg accessory, the confusion and intrigue quite evident on her face. "Nice cast?" she says, more of a question than a compliment.

"Yeah," Dean says with a rather weary-sounding sigh, "long story."

"Yeah," Steven quickly pipes up, "his brother's a douchebag!"

"Steven!" Carol gasps, her admonishment losing some of its effectiveness when Dean catches her trying to bite her lip in an effort to keep from laughing.

"What?" the little boys asks, his innocent wide-eyed glance bouncing between the two adults. "He said it."

"Thanks for throwing me under the bus kid," Dean mutters, even as he throws an apologetic smile Carol's direction.

She returns the smile with an eye roll. "This one's liable to repeat anything and everything. Come to think of it," she adds, her eyebrows furrowing as she gives Dean another once-over. "You're not a felon, are you?"

"What?" Dean asks, unable to keep the bubble of nervous laughter from rising to the surface. Because, yeah, he kind of is.

"It's just something Steven said. About your brother being a warden? And you having to go back to jail after you left here last time?"

Dean lets out a slow breath, careful to mask his relief that she's not privy to some FBI database somewhere, that he won't have to worry about high-tailing it away from Bobby's anytime soon.

"Nah, just feeling a little cooped up since my surgery, is all," he says, patting the thigh of his outstretched leg.

"Oh man," Steven says, the disappointment evident on his face.

"He was hoping you were some kind of exciting outlaw," Carol says, ruffling her son's hair affectionately.

Dean gives her one of his reassuring smiles even as the wheels in his brain crank furiously.

If Steven only knew…

()o()o()o()o()

"Alright Steven, you get the goods?" Dean asks, eyeballing Steven's pants pockets.

He'd sent the little boy on a mission about fifteen minutes ago, after careful tactical strategizing over how to de-girly Dean's cast.

"Jackpot!" Dean cackles, watching as Steven pulls out a couple of black Sharpie markers that he'd managed to snag from various locations throughout the library.

Because Dean had agreed to let Sam pick out his cast color. He didn't say anything about not covering it up.

"You doin' okay down there man?" Dean asks after about twenty minutes of solid de-douching efforts.

"Yep," says Steven, the boy seated on the floor, working on blackening the right and back sides of Dean's cast while Dean works on the easier to reach left and front.

They've managed to make fair inroads, but his back's starting to spasm and his hip's not really liking his current position, so he calls a halt to the efforts for the time being, nodding in satisfaction when he sees that he's maybe ten percent less douchey than before they'd started.

"Thanks, man. Lookin' good," Dean says. "What say we go for a little walk. I've got to move; my ass is cramping up."

Steven scrambles up, giggling at Dean's use of the "A" word, eager to continue to hang out with his new friend.

The two of them have only met a couple of times so far, but they'd formed a quick bond, Dean more than happy to have someone other than Bobby and Sam to talk with, someone who's not nattering over him each and every minute of the day, while Steven's intrigued with the man who may or may not be a wanted criminal.

"So," Dean says as they head out of the reading room towards the main section of the library, "you got any favorite places in here?"

At Steven's eager nod, Dean tells him to lead the way, crutching his way down the hall, Steven carefully slowing his own usual jack rabbit speed down to a more manageable pace in order to walk beside the older man.

"Huh," Dean says when they reach Steven's destination. He'd been all set to wind up in the children's section, resigned to endless additional tales of Harry, Hermione, and Ron. Instead, he finds himself slightly impressed. "You like this stuff?" he asks, glancing towards the boy even as he peruses the books on the shelf on front of him. Steven King, Dean Koontz, H. P. Lovecraft. All the classics in the horror world.

"Yep. Mom hates it. But I love it."

"Well in that case," Dean mumbles to himself before directing his next words to Steven. "Want to hear some stories? I've got a couple that I think might be right up your alley."

By the time the two of them have made a couple of laps around the library, Dean having to stop on several occasions to give his arms a rest, the elder Winchester has been firmly cemented in Steven's head as the best storyteller ever, and Dean is kicking himself slightly about his decision to divulge some of their real-life experiences.

Because Steven is smart. And inquisitive. And more than happy to tell Sam what Dean's been telling him when they happen upon the younger Winchester in the research room, elbow deep in musty-smelling books.

"Hey," Sam says, eyeballing his brother as he stands up and stretches out his back and shoulders. "You doing okay?"

"Fine Sam," Dean says, rolling his eyes at his brother's automatic setting of "Concerned Younger Sibling".

"Yeah, we're great!" Steven adds, barely able to contain his excitement. "Dean's been telling me all about these two guys who go around the country getting rid of evil and killing things."

Dean gets a slightly shifty look on his face even as Sam's Bitch Face works its way onto his face, the younger Winchester growling out a "Dean" for good measure.

"What?" Dean says with false bravado, belatedly wishing he'd steered clear of this particular section of the library. "Kid loves horror stories. So I'm telling him _stories_ ," he continues, careful to place the emphasis on the last word.

"Yeah, well," Sam huffs out, not ready to let his idiot older brother off the hook just yet. "His mom know what you're talking about?"

"Know what?" Carol asks, laying a few additional books on the table in front of Sam.

"Aww, crap," Dean mutters, shifting himself on his crutches while damning them at the same time for prohibiting him from beating a hasty retreat. "I was just telling Steven some stories, is all," he adds, shooting a warning look at Sam.

"Yeah! All about this case where there was a painting that kept coming to life and killing people and they thought it was the dad but really it was the little girl…" Steven adds, breaking only when he has to take a deep breath.

"Just something I read somewhere," Dean jumps in quickly, giving Carol his best reassuring expression.

"Wow," she says, her gaze bouncing back and forth between her son and the elder Winchester. "Sounds like you two are getting along great. You into the whole Horror genre too, Dean?"

"Uh, you might say that," Dean says, careful to keep his voice neutral and his gaze from landing on Sam. Because, yeah, massive understatement.

"Steven here started with the tamer stuff, then worked his way up to the big-time last year. The downside to being a librarian's kids, I guess. Lots of options here for him. I can't always control what he gets into. But at least he's reading," Carol adds with a shrug.

"I can sympathize. I can't control what this one gets himself into either," Sam says, raising a bland eyebrow at the mental "fuck you" Dean sends his way even while Carol chuckles.

"Good thing the two of them found each other then," Carol says, gesturing between her son and the elder Winchester.

"Yeah. Super," Sam adds, his tone of voice and facial expression saying otherwise. Because he's not at all convinced that this dynamic duo won't stay out of trouble by the time all is said and done.

()o()o()o()o()

"Seriously man? What the hell? I thought our big Winchester Family Rule Number 1 was 'We do what we do and we shut up about it.' What part of telling Steven about our cases seems like a good idea to you?"

Sam has finally resumed the conversation he'd just barely touched upon in the library, the ride home uncomfortably silent except for the Emo shit Sam had blared for the entirety of the journey, tersely telling Dean that this does not count towards his item on the list when Dean had tried to argue the opposite.

"Oh, come on," Dean says, breaking while he concentrates on hauling himself up Bobby's front steps. Crutches tucked back under his armpits at the top of the stairs, he continues. "The kid's nine. Thinks I'm just telling him horror stories. Which I am. They just happen to be true," he adds with as much of a shrug as he can manage without losing his grip on his crutches.

"Alright, but don't try to blame me when this goes south…" Sam says, stomping his way inside, leaving Dean to fumble the door closed behind himself.

"When what goes south?" Bobby asks, ambling out of his study having heard the arrival of the dueling Winchesters.

"Nothing. It's nothing," Dean says even as Sam says, "Genius here is telling his new little friend about some of our hunts."

"One. I told him about one hunt. And it was a story. Nothing more," Dean says evenly, rolling his eyes at Sam even while he directs a more placating expression towards the elder hunter.

"Yeah, well, just be careful," Bobby says, eyebrow raised to the brim of his trucker hat. "Kids are smart." He gives Dean a long measuring look, muttering an "Idjit" under his breath for good measure, then heads into the kitchen, pulling a couple of beers out of the fridge.

"So Sam, you get anywhere with those books?" he asks, opening the three bottles and placing them around the kitchen table before plopping himself down on one of the chairs.

Sam continues standing, having had quite enough of uncomfortable wooden chairs for the day, while Dean lowers himself carefully into one of the empty chairs, propping his casted leg up on one of the others with a sigh.

"What the hell happened to your cast?" Bobby asks before Sam can answer his initial question.

All three hunters turn their attention to the hot pink fiberglass cast, now liberally sprinkled with abstract patches of black the entire way up his leg.

"Like it? It's my anti-douche campaign. Steven and I are gonna cover it in black. So Ha, take that Sammy!" Dean says rather triumphantly.

Sam just raises an eyebrow to the ceiling, shaking his head slightly at his older brother. Because he really is an idiot sometimes. But if he can't figure the easy way out, Sam's not going to be the one to tell him.

Bobby, however, has no such brotherly commitments and has no compunction about calling Dean in Idjit for the second time in under two minutes. At Dean's questioning look, the older hunter rolls his eyes and sighs. "Your pant leg covers most of your cast, right?" he asks rhetorically. At Dean's nod, he continues. "So why don't you just focus your efforts on the part that sticks out? Your foot and the bottom part of your leg? Genius," he mutters with another shake of his head for good measure.

"Yeah," adds Sam. "I was actually just kind of figuring you'd cover it in Duct Tape or something."

"Oh son of a bitch," Dean mumbles, eyebrows furrowing as he wonders where those helpful little insights were a couple of hours ago.

Sometimes he really is an idiot.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_

A/N: Sorry for any similarities to Kelli from the Reality Bites series, but I really felt that this Dean needed a little kid to help him through his funk as well.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

By the time Dean gets his cast sufficiently de-douched, he's due to get the cast changed out for a walking boot. A conclusion Sam had come to long ago – having calculated the rate at which Dean and Steven were working and the date of Dean's next post-op visit – but conveniently kept to himself, figuring that at least it was keeping his brother occupied and out of his hair.

Needless to say, the same medical assistant who had put Dean's cast on was just as intrigued by the end-product, the hot pink showing through in sparse patches in some places while in others it looks like a legitimate black cast. Kind of like a kindergarten art project gone horribly awry.

But Dean's just happy to be out of the damned cast, even if the walking boot is almost the exact same thing. Because his new boot (the previous one having 'mysteriously' gone up in flames several weeks back) means that he's that much closer to being allowed back out on the road.

It also allows him to begin to use his right leg for balance, which at least means that it's not quite so tiresome for him to be upright, having to keep his foot off the ground every second of the day.

And even though he still has to be ultra-cautious, he can at least take the boot off to get a bath. Which is huge. Because he doesn't have to prop his casted leg up on the ledge of the tub anymore, trying to keep his hip from spasming on him while he's trying to get clean. Or dirty, as the case may be.

The change to the boot is also accompanied by a significant improvement in his pain levels, which, combined with his ability to be upright more often and for longer periods of time, gets him more active around the house as well.

He takes on the role of head chef, taking no small amount of satisfaction in being able to do something, even if it is still frustrating, given his limited mobility, difficulty carrying things, and his continued reliance on the crutches and/or countertop to keep himself upright.

But Bobby and Sam are more than happy to help, especially since Dean's cooking far surpasses anything the other two hunters can manage combined.

And it's while Dean's engaged in pulling together the makings for his chili that he begins to implement his plan. Because his time spent glued to Bobby's couch did little more than give him endless hours in which to plot Sam's comeuppance, his retribution for his little brother's sneaky double dog dare "To Do" list.

When he's sure the other hunters are otherwise engaged, having crutched his way into Bobby's study and gotten little more than a couple of grunts in response to his announcement that dinner would be ready in about twenty minutes, he puts his plan into action.

He's carefully laid out several place settings on the kitchen counter, unable to take them over to the table on his own, figuring that each hunter will serve himself from the pot bubbling happily on the stove.

He takes one of the soup spoons, the only one with an "S" stamped onto the handle (probably for "Singer" but just for tonight Dean will designate it for "Sam"), and dips it into the hot pepper tincture he'd managed to procure online a while back, having set it aside for a rainy day.

And if the product lives up to its hype, Sam's about to be caught in a deluge. Hopefully of sweat and tears.

When the other two hunters finally make their way into the kitchen, Dean having bellowed several times in order to gain their attention, the elder Winchester stands aside and hands them each their place setting, his eyes sharply focused on Sam as he serves himself a heaping bowl of chili.

Watching carefully to ensure Sam keeps the correct silverware, he then serves himself, letting Bobby carry his meal over to the table for him.

Once settled, Bobby lets out a couple of impressed "damn boy"s, while Sam greedily slurps down several spoonfuls himself, his initial enthusiasm waning as the heat on his tongue gradually builds.

Dean keeps his face neutral, careful to keep watch out of the corner of his eye without appearing to be too overly-interested in his little brother's activities.

"Holy crap," Sam mutters before taking a few healthy swigs from his water glass (the rim of which Dean has also dotted with the tincture), sweat popping out on his forehead in clusters as he gets yet another dose of heat.

"You okay over there?" Dean asks innocently, continuing to work his way through his own bowl of chili.

"Hot," Sam manages, wiping his forehead with his napkin.

"This ain't hot," says Bobby, throwing Sam a "what the hell's the matter with you" look.

"Seriously?" Sam asks, his eyebrows raised to the ceiling. "My whole esophagus is on fire right now." He looks at the other two hunters who are clearly not having the same issue and decides to give it another try, spooning more of the chili into his mouth only to have to rush over to the sink and spit it out. He takes a couple of gulps of water straight from the faucet, then turns back and gives Dean a hard look.

"What the hell man?"

"What? Don't look at me because you can't handle a little spice in your life," Dean says.

"Spice? I'm gonna have an ulcer from where that stuff burned through my stomach. What'd you do to my food?" he asks, his eyes narrowed in suspicion as a thought begins to take hold.

Thoughts of paybacks. And his brother having too much downtime.

"Dammit," he mumbles to himself, now sure that Dean's done something to his try to pay him back for his list.

"Here Sammy," Dean says with a roll of his eyes. "Take mine. I didn't do anything to your food."

Dean keeps a straight face, his words not technically a lie, since he'd doctored Sam's spoon and cup and not his food. For just such an occasion…

He watches as Sam smugly switches their bowls, taking another mouthful of what was previously Dean's chili, barely swallowing before his eyes get even rounder, the sheen of sweat getting slightly heavier, as the heat hits again, collecting at the back of his throat and traveling south.

Meanwhile, Dean continues to work his way through what was previously Sam's bowl, suffering no undue effects, while Bobby continues to shovel the chili down his gullet, his gaze traveling blandly between the two Winchesters.

Because even though he's not quite sure exactly what's going on, he has no doubt that Dean is, in fact, exacting some form of vengeance on his brother. And while he's curious to see how it turns out, he wants no part in their crazy revenge schemes, having more than once witnessed the lengths the boys will go to.

Not to mention the fact that when they're so focused on slowly torturing each other it's a pretty sure bet they stay out of his hair.

Not that he's not enjoying having them around. He really does enjoy the boys; enjoys Sam's inquisitiveness and love of research, enjoys Dean's sense of humor and cooking skills. Even if he has considered murdering the elder Winchester on more than one occasion over the past few weeks.

But he gets it, gets Dean's inability to sit still, to just rest and heal. Because that's exactly how John was. And how Bobby gets when he's been injured on a hunt. Hell, if you polled the majority of the hunters out there, most of them would choose to gnaw off the offending limb rather than be cooped up for weeks on end trying to recover from surgery.

So Bobby just sits there, enjoys watching Sam continue to figure out what the hell Dean did to him while Dean continues to play the innocent card, considering himself lucky that he's managed to stay out of the crossfire altogether.

()o()o()o()o()

In addition to making inroads with the healing process and his efforts at exacting revenge on Sam, Dean's also been making decent headway with the terms of his bogus contract.

He's working through the book with Steven (which, as it turns out, isn't as horrible as he'd been expecting), he's suffered Sam's choice of cast color, and he's even been getting his Sam-recommended daily allotment of fruits and veggies. Of course, only because Sam's been making a smoothie for him every day and practically forcing it down his throat, but whatever.

But the week that Dean tries to avoid high fructose corn syrup may very well be the worst of his life.

And that's saying something. Because he's been stabbed, shot, tortured, and clawed. Not to mention having quite literally been dragged to hell and back.

Even Sam starts to second guess the wisdom at having included that particular item in the list by the second day. Because it seems like his brother may have a slight addiction problem, if the withdrawal symptoms are anything to go by. He's tired, snippy (well, snippier than Dean usually is when he's doing something against his will), his usual voracious appetite is AWOL, and it seems like his leg is bothering him more than usual.

And at first, Dean's increased pain levels had raised a red flag, had made Sam contemplate taking his brother back to the surgeon for a re-evaluation, but a careful inspection of his leg and a quick online search revealed that all of his symptoms were quite typical for someone trying to detox from sugar.

And it doesn't take much longer until Bobby pulls the plug on that particular item on Sam's list, the elder hunter finally rendering his decision after having listened to Dean complain for several hours straight about everything from the pain in his leg to the loose bowels Sam's smoothies were causing to the general insanity of someone writing seven whole books on the topic of witches and magic.

So it's with a sense of relief that Dean resumes his high fructose corn syrup intake, although he's loathe to admit that he can't quite tolerate the previous amounts of crap he'd been used to. He figures it's kind of like drinking – he's lost his tolerance.

Good thing he can work on slowly building it back up.

A man's got to have goals in life, after all.

Speaking of which…

Dean takes great care in separating the dirty laundry that's been his main goal for today, Bobby having also added household chores to his daily activities calendar now that he's up and about more.

And while he's usually not quite so militant about separating his whites from his darks, their money situation more often than not necessitating more of a "throw in however much crap will fit in there" approach, today's task calls for extreme caution.

His diligence is rewarded later that evening, Sam's bellowed "Dean!" letting him know that his little brother has found his clean underwear.

All four pairs of which are now pastel pink, Dean's bright red sock having once again exacted a little revenge of its own.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_

A/N: So the Muse seems to have wandered away - will update when she comes back. Perhaps some prompts might entice her to return (although I can't promise anything) …


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

A/N: The Muse was good enough to lend her talents yet again (I have her working diligently on a couple of books as well; poor thing). She appreciates your continued encouragement!

"So," says Steven, sliding Dean a sly calculating glance, "you think stuff like that really happens?"

"Stuff like what?" Dean asks absently, his focus solely on not getting tripped up by the cobblestone walkway under his feet.

The Dynamic Duo (as Sam's taken to calling them) has graduated from doing laps around the inside of the library to walking around the grounds, the city's library having a nicely manicured series of walkways and side gardens which allow Dean to get a bit of exercise without having to worry about tripping over a wayward carburetor in Bobby's junkyard, although the cobblestones are turning out to be somewhat of a bitch.

"The stories you're telling. Think any of that stuff is real?"

Dean considers his answer carefully, finally giving a single nod. "Yep. Lot of weird stuff out there. Most people just don't see it." _Or want to see it_ , he thinks to himself.

"So, you'd believe me if I said I thought I saw something?"

Dean stops in his tracks, shifting himself on his crutches in order to get a better view of Steven, the boy sending him a look that's equal parts challenge and hesitant question.

"Maybe," Dean says with a bland raise of his eyebrow. "Won't know till you try me, right? What 'cha got?" he asks, crutching his way over to a cement bench and gently lowering himself down, stretching his booted foot out as he leans his crutches against the bench beside himself.

Steven follows Dean over to the bench but continues to stand, shifting his weight from one small foot to the other even as Dean can practically see the wheels of his head spinning, trying to figure out if he has enough trust in the older man to spill whatever beans are rattling around his brain.

The boy finally lets out a sigh that sounds like it belongs in a weary body several decades older than the nine-year old standing in front of him, giving Dean one last long look before speaking.

"I think there might be something in there," he says, pointing towards the library, his gaze swinging back to Dean, eyes round as he watches the older man's reaction closely.

"What kind of something?" Dean asks, careful to keep his tone conversational.

Steven carefully studies the ground, the toe of his sneaker tracing along a break in the cobblestones before swinging his searching gaze back to Dean.

"Something not normal."

Dean's lips turn down into a frown, his eyes narrowing as his own gaze travels back to the library, even as he contemplates the broad range of the meaning of the term "normal".

Sam, for instance, is definitely not normal. But that's just because he's a geek who loves libraries.

"Tell me more."

Several minutes later and Dean's interest is piqued enough that even if it turns out to be nothing, the basement of the building in front of him definitely deserves to get checked out.

Because if Steven's descriptions about the flickering lights, cold spots, and weird noises are anything to go by, Dean's pretty sure he's got himself a job.

Son of a bitch, if there's been a hunt under his nose this whole time…

"So how'd you find all that stuff out?" he asks, carefully keeping his eye on Steven.

"I go down there sometimes. When I get bored," the boy says, something about Steven's expression and posture just off enough to let him know there's slightly more to the story than what he'd letting on. "Does that mean you believe me?" he asks, eyeballing Dean in much the same way Dean's eyeballing him.

"Don't have any reason not to," Dean replies with a shrug, not yet wanting to commit himself to anything other than giving the library's basement a solid evaluation.

Steven tilts his head to the side and gives Dean a narrow-eyed look, finally nodding his head in acceptance at the older man's statement. Because at least he didn't laugh at him or tell him he's been reading too many horror stories like his mom does.

()o()o()o()o()

Not wanting to delay any exploratory opportunities, Dean had ushered Steven back inside, getting the layout of the basement as well as a spare set of keys to the storage rooms Steven had managed to snag before depositing the boy back on the sofa of the reading room, extracting a pinky swear and a promise that his "butt won't leave that sofa" unless Dean returns or his mom directs him otherwise.

He peeks around the corner of the research room, ensuring himself that Sam's still elbow deep in boring minutiae while thanking his lucky stars that Bobby hasn't yet enlisted his help in the research department, then makes his way to the entrance Steven had pointed out on their way back inside, shoulders sagging in resignation when he sees the rather long flight of concrete stairs in front of himself.

 _Son of a bitch._

He slides his crutches down the steps where they settle with a clatter on the landing halfway down the set of stairs, figuring that it'll be faster and easier to hop his way down using the handrails on both sides to brace himself than to use the crutches on one side, repeating the process on the second half of the stairway that turns back on itself, the entrance to the library's basement now in front of him, directly below where he'd entered the stairwell from above.

He makes quick work of figuring out which key the locked door requires, crutching his way through the heavy metal door cautiously, emerging into a dimly lit narrow hallway that looks similar to the bowels of the other innumerable industrial-type buildings he and Sam have explored over the years.

The thought that he should probably let Sam know what he's up to again briefly crosses his mind, quickly being ushered out by the knowledge that his overprotective little brother would no doubt put the kibosh on his exploration, Sam being known to be a killjoy on more than one occasion.

Besides, he's not even sure there's something here that merits their type of expertise. He wouldn't want to alarm Sam needlessly.

So he's really just saving Sam unnecessary effort.

 _Right._

Dean continues down the hallway, the only sounds the faint squeak of his left crutch and the hum of the fluorescent overhead lights, senses on high alert for any unusual air pockets, light patterns, or inexplicable noises.

The hallway ends in a rather large open room, the space divided by rows and rows of metal shelves, each shelf filled with cardboard boxes, many of which are meticulously labeled and covered with a thin layer of dust.

He slowly makes his way between the narrow aisles, half-heartedly scanning the labels on the boxes as he goes, wondering why anyone would need quite so many copies of Good Housekeeping magazines, not to mention why they would still be kept in the library's basement, stopping abruptly when he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end even as his breath puffs out in a faint cloud in front of his face.

"Here ghostie, ghostie, ghostie," he calls softly, eyes scanning the immediate vicinity for any visible signs of the supernatural, his right hand inching towards his jacket pocket and the canister of salt he'd had Steven snag from the employee break room just in case.

After several minutes of nothing more sinister than the sound of water running through the pipes over his head, he takes a few additional hobbling steps, stopping once again when his eyes latch onto something that might as well be screaming "Dean Winchester".

Stacks and stacks of Skin Mags from the 1920s.

While Dean has, up to this point, seen libraries as a necessary evil, useful for research and getting his younger brother out of his hair, he now has a new appreciation for the government-funded repository of information.

His right hand reaches out, reverently caressing the old magazines as he wonders just how long he can stay down here "researching" before Sam comes looking for him, glancing around for a comfortable reading spot when he feels a smack on the back of his hand.

"Don't touch!"

"What the….," he mumbles, trailing off as he gets a glimpse of a flickering image glowering at him, a rather prim-looking elderly woman who's sternly shaking her finger directly into his face.

"These yours?" Dean asks, a gleam in his eye as he takes in the apparition. "Naughty girl, huh? Yeah, it's always the quiet ones," he says, eyeballing the long floor-length skirt, shirt buttoned up to her neck, and bun on the top of her head.

"Filthy, filthy," the ghost says, shaking her head, her lips thinning in disapproval.

"What, these?" he asks, thumbing through the magazines again. "Nah, these are a national treasure. Shouldn't be sitting down here collecting dust like this."

"Don't touch," the ghost says again, her directive emphasized by the boxes flying off the shelf towards him.

He takes a quick step back, not quite ready to let her off the hook but not wanting to get brained by flying literature (he'd never hear the end of that, he's pretty sure), sending a couple of shakes of salt her way in an effort to give himself a little time to think.

She lets out a rather irate shriek before her image disperses, leaving Dean to pick his way through the impromptu obstacle course now littering the floor around him.

As he crutches his way towards the end of the aisle, he picks up one of the magazines, rolling it up and tucking it in his back pocket, intent on doing a little "light reading" once he's safely out of Miss Prim and Proper's reach.

Unfortunately, he doesn't get that far, his actions triggering the ghost's ire yet again.

He gets a brief glimpse of her stern face as she blocks his path, then sees the bookshelf next to him start to wobble as she shakes her head again in disapproval, repeating the words "Filthy" over and over like a broken record until she once again blinks out of existance.

Dean eyeballs the length of the aisle in front of himself, having an "oh shit" moment when the bookshelf begins to tip his direction, causing him just a moment's hesitation as he tries to decide his best course of action.

Knowing there's not a chance in hell that he'll be able to crutch his way to the end of the aisle in time, he turns his attention to keeping the bookshelf upright instead, his crutches falling to the floor in a clatter.

Which essentially leaves him a sitting duck without the ability to gain the proper leverage in order to get himself out of this mess. Unable to move, since his right leg still isn't able to bear weight, both arms engaged in the effort of keeping the bookshelf from toppling further.

Crap.

Dean always knew libraries would be hazardous to his health.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

A/N: Short chapter (but hopefully still just as sweet)…

"Oh, thank God," Dean mutters, calling out a louder "In here" to his brother when he hears Sam's terse whispers echoing down the hallway.

His brother's arrival, although sure to be accompanied by plenty of snark and ridicule, is met with nothing short of relief, Dean having barely managed to keep himself from freaking out by the grace of Metallica.

Because try as he might, he just couldn't gain the necessary leverage to get the bookshelf upright, equally unable to get himself out from under the weight of the heavy metal structure or let go long enough to send Sam a 911 text.

And when his arms had begun to burn from the isometric exercises he'd had to perform in order to keep himself from being flattened, he'd found it necessary to take his mind off of his current situation, hoping someone comes to find him before he runs out of song lyrics.

He'd made it halfway through the Master of Puppets album before he'd finally heard the telltale signs of someone else in the basement, thanking his lucky stars that his brother showed up before his arms actually fell off.

"Dude!" Sam hiss-whispers, spying Dean from across the room. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Right now, or in general?" Dean asks, his voice slightly breathless due to his continued effort to avoid becoming a pancake.

Sam's Bitch Face is not amused.

"Maybe we can save the lecture until I'm not in danger of being squashed?" Dean says, throwing his brother a pleading look.

"Or maybe I should leave you right here," Sam mumbles even as he walks around, trying to figure out how best to help his brother out of his current predicament. "At least that way I'd know right where you are."

Sam gingerly picks his way through the books and magazines littering the floor, tipping the bookshelf upright with little more than an eye roll and a shake of his shaggy head, turning his attention quickly to Dean, who has to take a few quick hops on his left leg to keep his balance, quickly latching onto Sam in an effort to keep himself from taking a nosedive.

"You okay there, Hopalong?" Sam asks, eyebrow raised blandly now that he's reassured his brother isn't in danger of anything other than being a dumbass.

"Peachy," Dean says, letting out a low groan when Sam hands him his crutches, his limbs already beginning to cramp up from his impromptu weight-lifting session.

"Just give me a sec," he says, shaking out his arms several times before attempting to move from his current position.

"Just how long were you stuck like that?" Sam asks, taking a closer look at his brother, not missing the sheen of sweat on his forehead or the pallor of his complexion.

"Long enough for my arms and leg to feel like rubber," Dean says, cursing as he crutches his way slowly to the end of the aisle, his left leg now also making its displeasure known at having had to bear the brunt of his own body weight in addition to the metal structure.

He collapses into a dusty wooden chair he'd been eyeballing for the better part of his stint in the basement, letting out a low moan of pleasure as his muscles are able to relax for the first time since the ghost had decided to try to teach him a lesson.

"How'd you find me anyway?" he asks, rubbing out his biceps and left thigh as he tries to prevent his limbs from going into full-on spasm.

"Steven," Sam says, continuing to eyeball his brother. "He came and got me. Said he was afraid something had happened to you when you didn't come back up."

Dean makes a mental note to send the kid a thank you note. Or maybe a Skin Mag.

"What the hell are you doing down here anyway?" Sam asks, breaking Dean out of his line of thoughts regarding corruption of a minor.

"Just looking around," he replies, trying for nonchalance. "Kid thought he might have seen something down here."

"Did you find anything?"

Dean's hesitation and shifty look provide Sam with his answer.

"Dammit, why didn't you tell me?" the younger Winchester asks, Bitch Face firmly directed at his dumbass of an older brother.

"Because I knew you'd try to keep me on the bench," Dean says, more than a little sulk evident in his tone of voice.

"Yeah, because clearly you can take care of yourself right now," Sam scoffs, shaking his head in exasperation.

"Shut up," Dean mumbles.

Because he knows all too well that Sam's right.

Doesn't mean he has to agree.

()o()o()o()o()

"What the hell Bobby?"

Sam slams his way through the front door of the house, his ire over Dean's close call now transferred to the older hunter.

"What?" Bobby asks, looking up from the newspaper he'd been perusing at his kitchen table, glancing between the clearly irate younger Winchester and his sheepish looking older sibling, unsure just what he's got to do with whatever it is that has Sam's shorts in a knot.

"How long have you lived here?" Sam asks, eyebrows furrowed together as he glares at Bobby.

"More years than you've been alive," Bobby replies warily, casting a glance at Dean who's continuing to make his way gingerly into the living room, stopping every few steps to shake out his arms.

"How did you not know you have a ghost in that library of yours?"

"What? What the hell are you talking about?" Bobby asks, true consternation on his face as he tries to make sense of Sam's question.

"Well, apparently, the downtown library is haunted. And genius over there got himself trapped in the basement by Casper," Sam says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the living room.

Bobby rises from his chair and heads towards the Winchester in question with Sam in tow, both of them arriving just in time to witness Dean collapsing backwards onto the sofa, his left leg and arms unable to keep himself from performing anything other than a controlled fall, the groan escaping his lips equal parts relief and annoyance.

Because his muscles are certainly not happy with him right now.

It had been all he could do to keep from asking Sam for help, not wanting to give his little brother any further weapons to use against him, Sam already fully locked and loaded in terms of verbal ammunition.

And now in addition to the rebellion occurring is his extremities, he's got to deal with Bobby.

Great.

"Wanna tell me just what in tarnation your brother's babbling on about?" Bobby asks, running an appraising eye over the Winchester slumped into his ratty sofa.

"Umm, not really?" Dean replies, knowing full well that he won't be able to avoid answering Bobby's question.

He huffs out a sigh, shoulders slumping in resignation, then makes short work of letting both hunters in on Steven's initial concerns and his own eyewitness account, his shifty look returning when Bobby asks him just what he'd done to piss off the spirit.

"She didn't like that I was looking through some of her magazines," he finally says, picking at an invisible spot of dirt on his jeans.

"Just what kind of magazines were they?" Bobby asks, a shrewd look on his face as he tries to figure out just what is it that Dean's not saying.

"Skin Mags. Old ones," the older Winchester finally says, a faint smirk on his face as he watches the surprise on the faces of the other two hunters.

"So you got trapped by a ghost because you were trying to look at old porn in the basement of a library?" Sam asks, his expression equal parts disbelief and glee.

Because he is never going to let his brother live this down.

Ever.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"Oh, son of a bitch," Dean groans, his sore muscles making themselves known as he tries to work himself into a sitting position on one of the twin beds he's occupying in Bobby's spare bedroom, Sam still sacked out on the other one.

Although apparently not for long.

"You okay over there?" Sam mumbles, cracking an eyelid to see what has his brother grumbling and grousing so early in the morning.

"Shit," Dean breathes out under his breath, the fact that his surgically repaired right ankle is the least painful of his limbs causing him no small amount of concern.

Because his previous day's run in with the bookshelf have left his arms and left leg screaming their displeasure.

He'd gone to bed the previous evening knowing he'd probably be hurting in the morning, the lactic acid build-up already making itself known, but this is ridiculous.

It feels like his arms weigh ten times their normal weight, making it quite the chore as he struggles to get himself upright, not to mention the fact that he can feel each and every muscle on his left leg from his ass to his foot.

And none of them are happy with him.

Sam had practically forced him to chug inordinate amounts of water upon their return to Bobby's in an effort to try to flush his system of any toxic breakdown products from his little exercise workout, although now he questions if his little brother was trying to help him or exact further revenge.

Because now he also really has to pee.

Super.

He slowly crutches his way to the bathroom, barely containing the hiss that threatens to escape his lips with each and every motion, thanking his lucky stars that he's a guy and can take care of his business at the toilet standing up since he's kind of afraid that the next time he sits down he'll need an extra set of hands to help him get back up.

Task number one completed for the day, he crutches his way back out into the hallway, standing at the top of the steps for several seconds while he contemplates the least painful way to get down the flight of stairs.

To date he's been using his crutches and the handrail for balance as he carefully hops his way down one stair at a time, although now he's not convinced that his arms (or his left leg, for that matter) will be able to hold his weight, in which case he's liable to take the fast track to the first floor and wind up back in the ER.

Someplace he'd rather like to avoid for the time being, seeing as how he's had quite enough doctors and nurses to last him for quite some time.

So instead, he manages to sink down to the ground, making his way to the first floor on his ass, his descent unfortunately witnessed by Bobby, who does a double-take when he catches a glimpse of Dean halfway down the stairs.

"That good, huh?" the older hunter asks, not missing the wincing of the elder Winchester with each and every movement.

Dean just shoots the older hunter a glare and a growl, already fed up with the way his day's going.

And it's not even 7 am yet.

Bobby turns on his heels and heads back into the kitchen, giving Dean the space and solitude he knows the older Winchester craves in times of weakness, his efforts rewarded by a slight nod from the younger hunter when he finally makes his way into the room several minutes later, collapsing into one of the wooden kitchen chairs with a groan.

"My ass even hurts," Dean bemoans as Bobby hands him a mug of coffee.

"Well I ain't rubbing it for ya," the grizzled hunter replies blandly.

Dean snorts at the mental imagery conjured up by Bobby's rebuttal, letting out yet another groan as the core muscle necessary for such an action let him know their general displeasure as well.

"This mean you're gonna be sticking close to home today?" Bobby asks, running a careful eye over Dean as the younger hunter props his elbows on the table in order to support his arms while he drinks his coffee.

"Yeah, guess so," Dean says, letting out a disgusted sigh.

Because he'd finally been feeling like his stamina was improving. Like it wasn't such a chore to be up and around. Was enjoying getting out of Bobby's house.

He gives another low growl as he considers that he and Bobby's couch probably have a hot date for the rest of the day.

Dammit. He really hates that thing.

()o()o()o()o()

"Well, look on the bright side," Sam says, looming over his brother who's once again taken up residence on the ratty sofa in Bobby's living room. "At least now you can get to the rest of the items on the list."

Dean's only retort is the extension of the middle finger of his right hand, the expression on his face seconding his gesture.

So far, the muscles required for those actions are the only ones not lodging any complaints.

A fact Dean finds not at all reassuring.

He also doesn't find it reassuring that Sam just happens to have the meat documentary on hand, the local library having a surprisingly good selection of movies and documentaries, much to the delight of the younger Winchester and the dismay of the elder.

And even though Dean isn't looking forward to having to sit through something that puts a face to his favorite meal, it's Sam's choice of album that nearly makes the older Winchester brother consider crying "Uncle".

Because although Dean had been sure that his brother would pull out an album by one of the numerous Emo bands Sam tends to gravitate towards, his little brother instead pulls out what Dean quite possibly considers the worst form of torture available.

An acoustic Justin Bieber compilation album.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_

A/N: Short again, I know. Apologies…


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"What in tarnation is that racket?" Bobby stops dead in his tracks, pausing in his trek from his study to the kitchen in order to refill his coffee mug. The caterwauling emanating from the living room elicits an expression that's a combination of disgust and horror.

"The sound of music dying," Dean retorts from his place on the sofa. He'd barely made it through the first track of the Justin Bieber acoustic album before wondering if his ears were bleeding. He kind of wishes they were. At least then the sticky liquid in his ear canals might block out the awful noise filling Bobby's living room.

He'd procrastinated for a while after Sam had left for the library. Had been trying to put off actually completing the tasks on his daily To Do list just out of sheer spite. But he'd gotten bored quickly, having reached his limit on local morning talk shows very early in his post-surgical convalescence.

He'd then begrudgingly turned his attention to the DVD Sam had oh-so-helpfully already loaded into the DVD player. While he did find himself feeling somewhat sorry for the cows, it was 12:30 by the time the documentary ended. And he was kind of hungry for a burger. A sentiment Dean's sure would earn him a glare and/or eye roll from his planet-conscious little brother. If said sibling were here. Which he's not.

 _Traitor._

Dean's fairly certain Sam would in no way subject himself to the crap currently playing on Bobby's CD player. The younger Winchester had left for the library by himself, yammering about his need to continue working on the project Bobby had given him. The smirk on his over-eager face had done nothing to reassure Dean.

"Yeah, well just because you and your brother are Idjits don't mean I have to suffer," Bobby mumbles as he heads over to his outdated stereo. He jabs the "STOP" button with an exasperated shake of his head and raises his eyebrow, giving the elder Winchester a considering look. "I won't tell if you won't."

"Bobby, I think I love you," Dean says with a sigh of relief when what passes for music comes to an abrupt halt.

Bobby sends the younger hunter a bland look and says "Yeah, well, I'll smack the good looks right off of that face of yours if you try to kiss me. Besides, you've got more important things to do."

Dean lifts an eyebrow to the ceiling, a nonverbal directive for Bobby to continue.

"Gotta get that spirit out of the library, now don't ya?"

"Really?" Dean asks, wincing as he tries to sit up a little straighter on Bobby's sagging couch. He'd been sure that the two other hunters would have collaborated to keep him on the sidelines for the remainder of this one.

"Well," says Bobby, continuing to give Dean a calculating stare. "Seems we have a local ghost that needs to get lost and a laid-up hunter who's liable to drive me crazy if I don't find something useful for him to do."

Dean doesn't miss the fond expression buried under Bobby's gruff exterior and sends the older hunter a reluctant half-smile. He's fully aware of how taxing he and Sam can be at the best of times. And these past few weeks have been far from their best.

"Hey Bobby?" Dean says, scrubbing at an imaginary speck of dirt on his jeans as he works on his next words. "Thanks. You know. For everything."

Bobby scratches his beard and shuffles his feet, the "aw shucks" almost rolling of him in waves. "Yeah, well. Just get to work, will ya?" he replies nodding towards the laptop setting idly on the coffee table in front of Dean. "Unless you'd rather translate some of those books for me?"

Dean gives his head a rapid shake to the negative, more than a little relieved that he's been able to avoid that rather unpleasant fate to date.

"And Dean?" Bobby adds as he turns to make his way out of the room. "Stay off the R rated sites, would ya?"

()o()o()o()o()

Several hours later and Dean has a pretty good guess as to who he thinks is haunting the library's basement. "You ever hear of a Trudy Harper?" he asks Bobby. He gently lowers himself into the chair across the desk from Bobby, a wince crossing his face as he gets himself settled.

Bobby looks up from the thick book in front of him, eyebrows furrowed together as he runs the name through the database in his brain.

"Doesn't sound familiar. Why? That your girl?"

"Yeah, I think so."

Dean had gratefully thrown himself into the task Bobby had given him, although his enthusiasm had waned as he'd hit dead end after dead end. He'd finally stumbled upon something close to a lead only by sheer dumb luck. It was while he was struggling not to fall asleep that he'd come across a blurb on the town's centennial celebration that had occurred a few years back. The ramblings about the town's founding fathers did little to keep his eyelids propped open. The old photos, however, were another matter entirely.

There, in all of her grainy black and white glory, was his attacker. The same demure dress. The same hairstyle. The same scowl on her face. Dean would've recognized her anywhere.

Unfortunately, the article hadn't revealed too much besides her name and the fact that she was the town's first librarian. No mention of what might possibly be keeping her in the basement. No mention of how she'd died or where she was buried.

Which means that Dean needs more answers.

He fills Bobby in on the paltry amount of information he's been able to gather, the grizzled hunter unable to fill in any further holes in Dean's knowledge base.

"Alright," he says resignation, his brain working furiously on just how he's going to put his plan into action. He thinks he might know where he'll be able to find some of the answers he's looking for. Has someone in mind who might be able to help him out. The problem is, she's at the library.

And he's pretty sure he's going to have to go through Sam to get there.

 _Dammit._

 _ **To Be Continued…**_

A/N: Apologies for delays and short chapters. Thanks for hanging in there with me!


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"Come on, Sam. I need to get back to that library." Dean rocks back and forth on his crutches as he eyeballs his brother. There's a lingering soreness in his biceps and his left leg with his actions, but he's feeling about 1000% better than the day before, which means he's itching to get back in the game.

"Dean. Come on." The tilt of Sam's head and his tone of voice make it clear how differently he sees the situation. "You're in no shape to hunt." He runs his gaze down to his brother's booted foot and back up again.

"I just need to talk to Carol. Ask her a few questions." Dean follows Sam into Bobby's kitchen. He props himself up against the counter and pours himself a cup of coffee, handing a cup to Sam as well. "I think I know who's in the basement."

Sam takes a sip of his coffee, narrowing his eyes at Dean over the rim of his mug. "Then why do you need to talk to Carol?"

"Because I think I have a name, but nothing that would tell us why she's here. What's keeping her here."

Sam takes another sip of coffee and shrugs. "Great. So tell me her name and I'll ask Carol.

Dean shakes his head. "Nope."

"Oh, take him with you," says Bobby, coming into the room on the tail-end of their conversation. He sends Dean a bland look and shifts his gaze back to Sam. "He's about to drive me crazy. That documentary and the damn music yesterday almost drove me over the edge."

Sam winces. "Sorry Bobby."

"Yeah, well, just get him out of my hair, will ya?" Bobby rolls his eyes and lets out an exasperated huff as he fills his own coffee mug.

Dean can barely contain the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. _Well-played, Bobby. Well-played._

"Seriously Bobby?" Sam's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "You think it's a good idea to let him back into that library?" Sam crosses his arms and bounces his gaze between the other occupants of the room. "Last time he was there, he almost ended up two dimensional."

Bobby shrugs. "Just don't let him down in the basement."

Sam snorts. "Yeah, sure. You got a leash around here somewhere?"

"Shouldn't be too hard to catch Hopalong, here." Bobby jerks a thumb in Dean's direction.

Sam lets out an exasperated sigh and shakes his shaggy head. "Fine." He drains the rest of his coffee and sets the mug in the sink. "Let's go." He pokes his finger at Dean. "But you stay on the first floor. And no funny business."

Dean sighs. "Not even a little funny business?"

Sam's Bitch Face is not amused.

()o()o()o()o()

"Hey, Sam. Hi, Dean." Carol smiles and folds her hands on the circulation desk in the center of the library. "What can I do for you two today?"

"Remind me why I agreed to this," Sam mumbles under his breath.

Dean gives Sam a poke in the ribs and gives Carol his most charming smile. "What do you know about Trudy Harper?"

Carol's face registers surprise as she studies Dean. "Oh sure. Miss Trudy. She's a legend around here. Practically built this place; soon after the turn of the century, if I'm not mistaken." Her forehead furrows. "Why do you ask?"

Dean waves a dismissive hand through the air. "Just something I stumbled upon. Reading about the town's history." He adjusts his stance and shakes out his arms. "Anything unusual about her?"

"Well, she was the town's first librarian. Very staid; what one would have called Puritanical. But she wasn't always so prim and proper." Carol presses her lips together and casts a furtive glance around the library. She leans over the desk and cocks her finger in a gesture to draw her audience closer as well. She continues in a hushed voice, a gleam in her eye. "Rumor has it, she was rather wild before she got married. Was a model for a magazine."

"Oh?" Sam asks. "What'd she model?"

Carol cocks an eyebrow. "Herself. Without clothes."

A sly grin slides across Dean's face as he recalls his run-in with the ghost. Her words of "Don't touch" and "Filthy" echo in his brain.

He suddenly can't wait to get back down in that basement.

Naughty Girl, indeed.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_

Author's Note: Thanks again for your patience and continued encouragement. I've still been writing; Laura from the Reality Bites series now has her own novel! I'll let you know if it ever sees the light of day…


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